


Regret (and Redemption)

by PeriPeriwinkle



Series: Regret and Redemption [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Descriptions of Gore, One-Sided Love, Regret, sad stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4884247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blowing up the chantry of Kirkwall didn't just mean starting a war and a revolution. It meant the death of innocents, the loss of his personal friends, the end of his pacific life in Kirkwall.</p><p>It meant living with the weight of the guilt and never giving up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regret (and Redemption)

**Author's Note:**

> I have lots of feels about Anders.
> 
> This is my first Dragon Age fanfic, I hope it's ok for a first time! I am open for suggestions :3 this is slightly unbeta'd so if you see anything wrong pls lemme know and I'll fix it!
> 
> \---

In the midst of chaos, Anders would just… slip away.

That was his plan all along. Or rather, that was his hastily improvised _plan B_ , since he was absolutely certain that Hawke wouldn’t let him walk freely after finding out what he had done. Anders barely even thought about what he’d do if he survived. In his mind, dying was not the most probable outcome, it was the _only possible_ outcome.

So when it happened, when Hawke showed that he was deeply disappointed in him but still forgave him after all, even daring to ask him to fight beside everyone in favour of the mages, to stop Meredith from making them all tranquil because of something he’d done all on his own – well. It suffices to say that he was more than just mildly surprised.

Anders didn't remember much of the actual fight. The sound of clashing swords and pained cries sounded muffled in his ears, like they were filled with cotton, and his vision blurred at times, like he was so tired he could barely keep himself on his feet. His head ached, sending jolts of pain down his neck and onto his back, Justice struggling to take over while Anders fought the spirit back harder than he ever did to keep control of himself while simultaneously trying to concentrate on the spells and the targets he was aiming for. Eventually he gave up on going for an offensive approach, focusing only on protecting and healing Hawke and Fenris and Varric and whatever ally he could find that seemed to have a bleeding wound, a limping leg, a bruised eye.

Not an easier task by all means, especially with his considerably weaker state of mind, but when he lowered his staff, his mana too low to cast anything else, and saw that the abomination that once was Orsino was _dead_ did he realize.

This was all _his_ doing.

Orsino was dead, and so was dozens of circle mages who’d fallen in combat, and most likely hundreds of innocent Kirkwall citizens who’d been hit by the debris from the Chantry.

Hawke’s eyes met with Anders’ the moment the apostate glanced away from the creature's mangled corpse; the Champion’s eyes were heavy lidded, face and armour splattered with blood and gore, lips open and shoulders sagged as he sweated and breathed heavily. He was exhausted, yes, but this sight was nothing new to Anders. Hawke always looked this way after fighting off an especially harder or larger mob, and Anders clearly remembers him having this very same expression after the hour long fight they had with the high dragon just near the mines. But when their eyes met, unlike all the other times they fought together, Hawke didn’t grin, didn’t shrug, didn’t wink or send him one of his famous radiant smiles that came together with a nervous laugh, a signal that the battle was over, that they’d done it and they were ok. The things that Anders loved about Hawke and could make his heart skip a beat or two or three.

Instead, he looked blankly at Anders, his shaking hand and loose fingers nearly letting go of his staff from exhaustion and how nervous he was, and Anders’ chest seized up. For a fleeting moment he thought, _no_. This _had_ to be done. But he recognized the voice as coming more from Vengeance than himself, and he wondered not for the first time nor for the last if he should have explained everything to Hawke before it all came to this.

Hawke trusted him with his life, even now. He said that he could’ve maybe understood Anders’ reasons, if only the healer had _talked_ to him. He betrayed his trust, made him an unwilling accomplice in killing innocent people, and still, after all of that, he put a hand on Anders’ shoulder and asked to join him in battle once again, despite the fact that Hawke had killed other criminals before for much, much less.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

He broke eye contact and looked down, and somewhere far away he heard Hawke talking to his companions, giving them instructions. He paid no attention, the voice in his head screaming at him that _he had no right to be alive when so many people were dead by his doing_ screamed louder and louder and louder until he nearly forgot where he was or how to breathe. _In, and out_ , he told himself, focusing on his chest and lungs, one hand tightly gripping the chain and crumpling the feathers on his coat, the other on his staff, tip flat on the floor to support his weight. If not for that he felt he could’ve fallen to his knees. It would’ve been much easier than breathing. _In, and out_ , he repeated, focusing again. _In, and out_. _In, and out_. _In--_

“...Anders?”

The apostate jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder, gently touching the black feathers from his outfit, and when he looked back Hawke was there, watching him with those same tired eyes. It seemed like the man was talking to him, and Anders begged, _implored_ to the Maker that he wasn’t calling him to join him in battle again. He didn’t deserve such kindness, such _trust_ , from no one else anymore, but _especially_ from Garret Hawke.

“We’re going back to the courtyard now,” Hawke explained, “to try and find anyone else that might need our help. Meredith is probably going to be waiting for me, too. Can you use your magic to protect me and the others and heal as much people as you can?” And then, when Anders hesitated, thinking it couldn’t get any worse, Hawke finished, in a lower voice, “I can’t do this without you.”

And yet. Yet, there it was.

For a second Anders felt that no words could come to him. A still functioning part of his mind realized he was in a state of shock, and although he _knew_ what he had to say, he felt like he couldn’t. He knew _everything_ he had to say, and all of it ran in his mind as he pictured himself screaming at Hawke. _How can I fight by your side after what I’ve done? You trusted me and I broke that trust, and yet you chose to keep trusting me despite it all. I’m a murderer and a liar and I manipulated you to help me and I betrayed the people of Kirkwall who always came to me for help. You wouldn’t have to do this if it weren’t for me, me and Justice, me and **Vengeance** , we did this, **we did this** , how can you still—_

Still, no words came to him in the end. They got caught in his throat and choked him until he could no longer pull air into his lungs, until his heart slowed and his body felt _empty_ , numb, the throbbing on his head worsening until he thought his skull would split in two and dark splotches appeared on his vision, a tell-tale that he was soon going to faint.

Anders wondered what his face looked like, although he figured it probably looked just as bad as everyone else’s, and if he looked worse, well. They knew exactly why. With much more effort than usual he pinched his lips and nodded mutely, and Hawke gave his shoulder one last firm squeeze before nodding back. He strode past him, his friends – _your friends, too_ he added to no one but himself – walking by without looking his way, until Merrill, hanging behind the whole group, stopped next to him and looked him in the eyes.

Her brows were furrowed with worry, and her lips curled up in a sad grin. She reached for his hand, which was still clinging to his coat, fingers closed so tightly they were starting to cramp, and covered it with her own, her warm and soft palm, so gentle and delicate it was almost like she thought her touch would break him.

“You can do this, Anders.” She whispered softly, her voice soothing something _dark_ inside of him. “I am sorry that all of this happened, but I do not blame you. And despite what everyone might think right now, I _know_ you, we _all_ do, and I _know_ that you are not a bad man.”

And with that, she slid her hand down and walked past him, jogging to reach the others.

_You are not a bad man._

Oh how Anders wished she was right.

He let go of a breath he didn’t notice he was holding back, and took in gulps of air like they were his first in days. He looked down again to what once was Orsino, and to the piles of bodies in the room around him, and again he thought, _this is my fault_.

 _It **had** to be done_, came right after, and in these moments did Anders realize how he and Justice were in fact two separate entities and not one soul like he believed so vehemently. In times like this it was easy to see where one ended and the other began, but normally the lines were too blurry to see and hard to make sense. Would Anders have done this, if Justice had never been a part of his being? Was the idea of doing something so harsh his or Justice’s? How much of the plan was his doing, and not the spirit's?

But in the end, did it matter who was more or less to blame? It was done, and Anders had a part in it. It didn’t matter if he wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for Justice, because he _had_ done it in the end, and he couldn’t regret it. _It didn't matter_ if he regretted it. Not now.

These were questions for another moment, he thought. He forced his legs to move, and walked through the door to the courtyard, joining his friends.

Only because they needed him.

But they would never again.

Anders would see to it himself.

Meredith traded jabs with Hawke and Cullen, who finally seemed to notice the insanity of his Knight-Commander, and the fight broke down, the red lyrium covering the great sword she held giving life to the massive statues in the courtyard. The Champion focused solely on Meredith, trying to break her control on the mindless monsters stomping around them and shaking the ground with their steps, while Anders concentrated on healing anyone that he found was close to collapsing.

Sooner than anyone expected, it was over. Meredith ended up corrupted by the red lyrium herself, her whole body crackling and turning into stone, the remaining statues that were attacking their group falling down like puppets with their strings cut. Hawke and his companions looked at what used to be the Knight-Commander in silence, the now few Templars around all standing down while the people who fought on their side in the battle cheered and hugged each other, celebrating their victory.

And there, in the midst of chaos, where he knew no one would notice he was gone before it was too late, Anders slipped away – maybe not exactly as he originally planned, but he did nevertheless –and not once did he look back.

 

\---

 

There was nothing in his clinic that he needed anymore, not _really_ , but he went there anyway with the intention of picking up his spare clothes, his vials, his few blankets, and most importantly, his manifesto, the work that he dedicated himself for so many years.

When he got there, though, he regretted his decision immediately.

The door was closed and the lantern wasn't lit, just as he’d left it, but when he pushed the door open the place was far from empty. Dozens of refugees sat around on the floor, and the ones that looked much worse occupied the few cots he had. His two assistants were walking around in a frenzy, giving away the vials he’d meant to stash and using what little knowledge of healing magic they had, their faces scrunched up with concentration. Some people smiled at the sight of him, others cried with relief, and Anders felt his blood run cold. This was _not_ in his plans.

“Mage!” A woman whose children he’d seen regularly in his clinic exclaimed, making his assistants notice him and breathe out with relief. “Thank the Maker you’re here, does this means the battle has ended? Is the Champion okay?”

“I...” Anders started, but before he could continue his elven assistant was hanging on his arm, brow furrowed and dark circles under her eyes.

“Anders, oh I’m so glad you’re here. When we heard that the Champion of Kirkwall was with you when the Chantry exploded we were all worried sick.” The girl, Maren, said. She was barely in her thirties, a young mage that he helped escape the Kirkwall circle many years ago. She’d been in his company ever since, and the healing spells Anders was teaching her were nearly as good as his own, but from the looks of it she’d used up all her mana already. He gulped and looked around while she kept talking, watching his second assistant, a young human teenager named Elin, dab the forehead of a young patient lying in a cot, moaning in pain. “I’m so sorry to ask this of you, especially since you look exhausted, but these people...” Maren stopped and looked back, biting her lip. Anders could feel her pulse fluttering on the hand that still held on to his arm.

This couldn’t be happening to him.

“I healed as many as I could, but you know I can’t mend muscles and fix bones, or at least not as perfectly as you can, not yet.” Maren finished after a few second of silence that felt like an eternity to the apostate. The girl was on the verge of tears, her hands shaking. “I-I’ll help you out, and then I promise we’ll send the less urgent ones home for the day, but people have been saying something about a war, Anders. Do... do you know if it’s true?”

Anders didn’t reply. His eyes were glued to the boy on the cot that Elin was taking care of; there were thick bandages around his leg, his chest, his arm. He looked awful, and a woman that appeared to be his mom was at his side, shushing him quietly. On the corner of the room he saw a bloodied old man, cradling a small sleeping child in his arms, his face sombre, dark. A woman with a blood stained patch on the left side of her face was lying on the dirty floor, unmoving except for the small breaths she took, her lithe chest rising and falling so slowly it was barely perceptible.

_I did this._

“Maren, fetch me those extra strong lyrium potions I’ve been saving, and then lock the doors and open it to absolutely no one.”

“But, serah--”

“I _said_ ,” Anders looked straight in her eyes, trying to look serious and resolute despite how nervous and desperate he felt. He _had_ to, for her sake. For the patient’s sakes. “ _Don’t. Open. The door._ Was I clear?”

Maren didn’t reply. She nodded, clearly upset, turning to the door to lock it, and Anders pulled his sleeves up. His first stop was the child in the man’s arms. None bothered with introductions, allowing the silence to speak for itself, and as soon as Anders kneeled in front of them he called forth his healing magic, feeling for the injury the child had suffered.

A broken spine.

 _Easily fixed_ , he told himself, willing himself not to shake and concentrating to feel the bone and its crack and mend it back in place. In a matter of seconds he’d drained all the mana he’d regained, but the child was better, and already stirred in the man's lap, who cried with relief.

If Anders hadn’t come back, this boy wouldn’t be able to move any of his limbs ever again.

_I did this._

The lyrium vial was shoved into his palm as soon as he rose to his feet. Maren informed him that the door was locked but she'd have to open it to let people out, and Anders nodded once, thanking her. The lyrium burned as it went down, and he felt the familiar fake alertness that he always got when he drank the potion, but he paid it no mind. Without another word he made his way to the girl with the patch on her face. The friend accompanying her informed him she’d been hit by a piece of the Chantry when it exploded. Anders healed the wound, but the girl would certainly lose her eye.

_I did this!_

The boy on the cot was next. Three broken ribs, a broken femur, a concussion, a shattered wrist. Lots of serious burn marks. Anders wondered how he was still awake. In ten minutes the boy had passed out from the pain of having his bones and muscles mended, but the colour had returned to his face, his brows were no longer furrowed and the fever had all but disappeared.

He would’ve been dead by morning.

**_I did this!_ **

Slowly Anders made his way around the room. He made sure to not heal superficial wounds so he could save his mana to the more serious injuries, and the patients were very understanding, thanking him when he made a patch instead of fixing a nasty scratch with magic, when he rubbed a cream instead of making a bruise disappear. Every time five patients left, two more came in, usually with nearly fatal injuries. Concussions, blood loss, broken limbs, fractured bones. Some of them were adults, few of them were elders.

Most were children.

**_IdidthisIdidthisIdidthisIdid--!!!_ **

“ _Please_ serah, the healer said...!”

“ _Anders!_ ” Came a familiar voice from the door, Maren's protests cut short, but Anders merely peeked from the knee of a little girl that he was mending together and frowned. Varric had barged into the clinic, a pack hanging on his shoulder besides Bianca and a small case on one of his hands. _Luggage_ , the apostate thought numbly. Of course. The dwarf slowly looked around, taking in the scene around the clinic, his face soon changing from worry to confusion to pure white _anger_. “What in Andraste's name... _Are you out of your fucking mind?!_ ”

“I’m nearly done, Varric.” Anders muttered, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. He’d drank three more lyrium bottles since his first one, and Maker knows how long he’d been there for. “Just a few more patients and I’ll be on my way.”

“Just a... do you have _any idea_ of the chaos that is outside?! They _know_ you’re here, Anders!” Varric argued, his voice low and urgent. Anders squinted, but otherwise kept his full attention to the cartilage he was trying to put back in place. “Do you want to _kill yourself_ and take everyone in this clinic with you, is _that_ what you want?!”

“Of course not, I...!” Anders replied, the blue around his hands flickering, and when the girl gasped in pain he bit his tongue and stopped himself. He needed to _concentrate_. “If you came here to _help me_ , Varric, you’d do well to pack my clothes and my work papers inside the bag I keep under my cot. You know the one. Otherwise, I suggest you _leave_.”

“Maker’s breath, Blondie.” Varric sighed, voice low. Anders didn’t have to see him to know he had that tired, disappointed look on his face that could make a puppy cry. Varric saved that face and that voice only for the direst of situations. “Fine. _Fine!_ But you’re leaving with me as soon as you finish with her.”

“Varric--” Anders started as Varric started walking away, his tone nearly a warning, and Varric turned back to him again in a blur, getting on his face.

“ _Don’t ‘Varric’ me, Anders!_ ” He shouted, his booming voice echoing through the room. The girl he was treating started crying, her mother hugging her shoulders tightly and glaring at the dwarf, who seemed to either not see them at all or simply paid them no mind. “There are Templars in every nook and corner of this city right now, and you’ve been sitting for _hours_ in the first place they ought to look for you, doing _what_?! Trying to fix what you did, to make it right?!”

“ _I am damn well trying to do that, Varric!_ ” Anders shouted back, finishing his spell at last and rising to his feet in a leap, towering over his friend in what he hoped was at least mildly intimidating despite the way his chest rose and fell with alarming speed and his legs swayed from exhaustion. Varric didn’t seem taken aback, glaring up at the mage, completely unmoved. “I’m the only one who can help these people, and I...! I cannot in my right mind leave them to their own fate, I _cannot_...!”

The door barged open. Three more people walked in, two of them carrying a Fereldan boy. Anders imagined he was maybe eleven, no more than twelve; his legs were crushed, a bloody, gory mess, and the hands of the adults’ carrying him were charred, bruised, bleeding and dripping on the floor, and Anders imagined them until now, hours after the explosion, trying to dig the boy out from under a giant piece of debris he must’ve been trapped under. The third man wasn't helping because he was clutching his arm to his chest, a bone sticking out from under the flesh.

They all looked desperate. _Hopeful_. Anders’ apprentices hurried to their aid, but they wouldn't be able to fix them. If _he_ didn't help them, they’d have to amputate the boy’s legs, the man’s arm, and he had to _leave_ , _he had to run_ , but he _couldn’t_ , he did this, _he--!_

And just like that, the tears came.

They sprouted from his eyes, dripping from his lashes in large droplets. Maren and Elin were helping the new patients, placing them on two cots that were emptied not ten minutes ago and were still stained with fresh blood. One of them downed another lyrium potion - their last, by the looks of it - and all four of their hands glowed, trying to fix the injuries the best they could, but Anders knew they wouldn’t be able to do half of what he could. He was the only one with enough knowledge to fix everything just right, mend in the right places, who knew exactly how to glue bones and not leave loose shards inside the tissues. His eyes were blurry with the tears that wouldn’t stop falling and he was frozen in place, fists balled on his sides, his whole body trembling.

“Come on, Blondie.” Came a soft voice from besides him, snapping him out of whatever trance he was in. Varric’s face was back to that soft, worried expression, and it broke the apostate's heart. He handed Anders a bag with what seemed to be his things inside, and for a fleeting moment the mage looked at his desk, wondering if Varric looked through all the drawers, if he got all his papers, all his folders, all his pens and ink pots, if he found the extra candles stashed on the very back of one of them. He wondered, and worried, but deep down, he didn’t care even if Varric didn’t. He took the bag, shouldered it, and he and Varric looked to the kid, still out like a light.

If he walked out, at the very least, the boy would never walk again.

_...I did this._

The girls didn't even notice when he and Varric walked out of the clinic, and just like that, he was gone.

 

\--

 

They were walking through the undergrounds in complete silence, and Anders truly regretted shouting at Varric. He was right – the longer he stayed, the more patients would turn up, and the more likely it’d be for him to be caught. He started a _war_ , for Andraste’s sake. There would be patients coming and going from his clinic all day every day for months yet to come, and it’d be just a matter of time for Templars to find him and take him under custody, if not for being a mage, simply for _murder_.

No, not take him under custody. If a Templar caught sight of him, even if he was in the middle of saving someone’s life, they’d kill him right then and there, along with anyone else who might have tried to stop them.

He did all he could. It was for the best that he left when he did.

“...Where’s Hawke?” Anders asked quietly after a few minutes, and Varric sighed.

“He left for the docks with Riviani and Broody. She’s taking them somewhere safe, and then she’ll be on her way, too.”

“Ah.” Anders replied quietly. _Good. They’re safe._

“I’m sorry, Blondie.” Varric whispered, but Anders shook his head.

“What are you apologizing for? I should be the one feeling sorry around here. You did nothing wrong.”

“I know, I know.” The dwarf muttered in reply, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “I’m just... sorry it got to this, you know? I wish it didn’t have to.” A pause, and then a chuckle. “We made a really good team while it lasted though, didn’t we?”

Anders grinned, remembering the nights in Hawke’s estate, playing cards and drinking ale while Orana cooked and giggled at their antics. He remembered the jokes, the jabs, the stories. He remembered the Hanged Man, and the Blooming Rose, and the salty breeze from his walks on the Wounded Coast, the faces he’d never see, the laughs he’d never hear again.

“Yes, we really did.” The apostate said at last, his feet dragging him, his voice emotionless. He could barely feel Justice in him at that point. A part of him knew the spirit was probably dormant, since Anders himself was too tired to even think straight, but another told him that Justice was never _really_ gone. It was just not the moment for it to do or say anything meaningful. “Where are _you_ going, Varric?”

“Me? I have a ride waiting for me at the port, too.” He said, pointing with his thumb behind his back. “I needed to do something before going there, though.”

“ _What_?” Anders asked, confused. The docks were the complete opposite way they came from, and yet Varric had gone out of his way to... walk beside him? “I hope this is not the moment where you tell me you were following _me_ , because I could’ve sworn I was following _you_!”

Varric laughed, the sound _nearly_ genuine, and shook his head. “Y’know, I could screw with you and say that I was _actually doing just that_ , but nah. I wouldn’t follow you while you’re looking like this even if you had a map and compass, Blondie. I actually just have a... 'Delivery' to make. Before I leave.”

“A delivery...?” Anders asked, and just as he did so, they both turned a corner, and the apostate stopped dead on his feet.

Twenty, maybe thirty of Kirkwall's circle mages, all with bags and sacks on their hands and shoulders, were sitting or standing on a dead end in the undergrounds. They all raised their eyes when Anders and Varric turned the corner, but none said or did anything. The dwarf looked up as the human looked down, a serious look on his tired face.

“I rounded them up just for you, buddy.” Varric said, oh so quietly. If Anders didn’t think possible, he thought the dwarf was choking a little with grief. “Orsino is dead after all, and despite the mess you made on Kirkwall, well... they told me they’re grateful. They wanted to join you to wherever you were going, so I agreed to see if I could find you. I had a feeling you were still in Kirkwall somewhere, thick headed like you are, and in the end, well, I was right wasn't I.”

It barely made sense to his exhausted mind. They were kids, adults, young teenagers, scared and cold and grieving. And they were _mages_. _Free_ mages now. Because of _him_.

“We don’t agree fully with what you’ve done, apostate.” One of the taller kids said, most likely from Rivaini, and he stepped forward, his voice booming over the empty tunnels. “But... _something_ had to be done. And _someone_ had to do it. We wish it didn’t have to come to this, either. But now we’re free, and we will follow you to wherever you wish us to go.”

_I..._

They looked tired, but _hopeful_. One of the girls smiled among her tears.

An image came to his mind: Karl, with the branded sun on his forehead, first his empty eyes and then his shaky voice, _begging_ him to kill him. And that’s the fate they all could expect in the hands of the Circles of Magi, in Kirkwall and anywhere else: death, Tranquillity, or imprisonment for life.

None sounded too promising.

_...I did this, too._

“Thank you, Varric.” Anders whispered, voice cracking, tears welling up in his eyes again. Varric grinned up at him and punched him jokingly on the hip.

“Don’t mention it. Just... keep in touch. Here.” He handed the mage a slip of paper with an address that seemed to have been hastily scribbled. It was Varric's handwriting. “That’s where I’ll be staying, at least for a while. Let me know when you’ve settled if you can, okay?”

A sad smile curled on Anders' lips. Above the ground, heavy armoured footsteps clanged, like a horde of wild horses galloping to their destiny, shaking the tunnels and filling their ears with white noise. Anders finally nodded after making sure he'd memorized the words, and tucked the slip away somewhere safe.

“Thank you again. I’ll... I’ll try.”

“Good enough for me. See you around, Blondie.” Varric saluted, walking back to where they came from, and Anders watched as he walked away. “I’ll tell the others you said goodbye! Except Sebastian, I guess. I don’t think he’ll much appreciate getting word from you ever again.”

It was a joke, no matter how tasteless it was, but Anders managed a dry, forced chuckle. His mind went back to Hawke, Aveline, Isabela, Merrill, Carver, even Fenris. Everyone that fought with him for his cause, whether they believed it or not. Everyone he'd called friends for the past decade.

Everyone that he’d never see again in his life.

“Goodbye, Varric Tethras.” Anders said gravely, and Varric raised a hand, waving back and turning away, not looking back, Bianca hitting against his legs as he jogged towards the docks.

He’d sacrificed not only his own life, even if figuratively speaking, but as well as other people’s _actual_ lives, multiple innocent lives, for this cause. People who had nothing to do with the mages and their issues. War would probably break out in circles everywhere once word of what happened in Kirkwall came up in other cities. Hundreds of thousands more people would die in consequence of that.

But.

He looked back at the mages, anxiously waiting for him, and he took his staff from his back, using it as a walking stick. He was too tired but they couldn’t stop. Not now.

“We’ll follow the underground tunnels.” Anders said, and everyone perked up, bodies rising and preparing to move. “We walk as far as we can, and then we rest. We’ll think of where to settle as soon as we reach surface again and make camp somewhere safe. Agreed?”

Everyone nodded, and they began marching, the tall boy that spoke up earlier leading the group.

They walked, and they hoped, and they dreamed. And maybe this wasn’t enough to redeem Anders of his crimes; maybe nothing would ever be. But he knew now that dying was too easy. He had a responsibility to the mages that he’d freed. He’d much rather face the consequences of his actions and deal with them as much as he could. To make not _everything_ right, but as many things as he could.

Maybe _redemption_ would never come, but damn the Maker if he wouldn’t spend the rest of his days fighting for _freedom_.


End file.
